


The Hole in the Wall

by Soquilii9



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into Eliot Spencer's past.  Based on the Low Low Price Job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hole in the Wall

Eliot Spencer, working his part of a con as a new ValueMore employee, struck up a conversation with an older man who was having difficulty moving paint cans in his section of the massive store. He stopped to help the man and suggested that he come to a union meeting which would address the problems the new employees were having. The man agreed.

'You wouldn't think it, but I actually used to own a hardware store.'

'Aw, y'kiddin me,' said Eliot. 'You and my old man.' 

'Really?'

'Yeah,' said Eliot, as Hardison listened on the comms, monitoring in Lucille II. 'I'll tell ya, he could tell you where everything was before you even walked in the store; tell you exactly what you needed; he knew where every bolt, nut and washer was in that place.'

~~~~~

Later in the progression of the con, Eliot and Hardison were sitting together in Lucille II watching Nate Ford as he did his part with the Regional Team Leader of ValueMore, Caroline Cowan. They planned to take her and her massive town-killing store down.

The talk turned to what Eliot had said earlier.

'Eliot,' said Hardison, 'that stuff about your Pop owning the hardware shop - was that real or was that just an alias riff?' 

Eliot didn't answer. Hardison knew the Hitter well enough to back off and let it alone. 'OK,' he said softly.

To his surprise, Eliot spoke. 'It was more like a hole in the wall. Tools stacked up to the ceiling...there was method in his madness, though, he knew the place like the back of his hand.'

Hardison was intrigued. 'Did you two work it together?'

'Yeah, he wanted me to run the damn joint. But I wanted...to get out...change the world... _needed_...to get out...of there. I joined the service when I was eighteen and, well, that was it.'

'When's the last time you were back?' asked Hardison gently.

Eliot's throat worked; his eyes were suspiciously moist. 'We had a fight the night before I left,' he said finally, 'so...this town...this town's a lot like that; it's small...' 

He wasn't able to go on. He pecked at the keyboard, scratched his cheek, pointed to the screen and redirected Hardison back to the job before them.

**_TWENTY YEARS EARLIER_ **

In a small town outside Oklahoma City, a wizened old farmer pushed open one side of the double doors to the small hardware store. He'd just broken the handle off his hoe and in trying to repair it himself had made it too short. He'd have to buy another one. Fuming, he took his truck to town.

The proprietor looked up as the little bell attached to the door tinkled. He was a man in his middle forties; gray at the temples. His hard blue eyes were bloodshot. 'Hello, Jake,' he said. 'What can I do for you?'

'Broke my hoe this morning. Need a new one.' 

'Shame. Well, we have some good ones that just came in this week; how much were you wanting to pay?'

'Not much, this is the old woman's butter-and-egg money.' He laid out a ten-dollar bill.

'Got just the thing.' He yelled over his shoulder. 'Eliot!'

Eighteen-year-old Eliot Spencer was in the back of the small hardware store, unpacking box after dusty box of new stock, checking off and sorting the inventory. He set down the boxcutter. Filthy and sweating, he came up front in response to his father's call.

'Yeah, Dad?'

'Need one of those wood-handled hoes for this gentlemen.'

Eliot searched and came back empty-handed. 'Where are they?'

'Now, son, you oughta know, you stocked 'em,' he said condescendingly.

'Yeah,' he said, 'and I put 'em with the shovels _where they belong._ '

The man cast a hard glance back at him. 'I wanted 'em _with the tools_...above the crowbars and wrenches. I hang 'em up there out of the way.'

'That makes no sense, Dad.'

The tension between the two was palpable. The old farmer looked from one to the other. 'Look,' he said, 'if it's too much trouble, I'll just -'

_'No.'_ said Eliot's father, still staring at him. 'No trouble. The boy has to learn how _I_ do things. You'd think he'd know by now; he's been working with me since he was in junior school. He's gonna take over the store for me one day and when that happens, he can do things _his_ way, but for now he's _gonna do 'em my way...'_

_How many times have I heard that?_ Eliot ran his hands through his thick, close-cropped hair in frustration. This was Friday, the last day of Spring Break; just a few weeks away from graduation. Most of his friends were still out partying. Just another few weeks working in this godforsaken store after school, weekends, most holidays; after he graduated...what? There had to be something better and he'd be of an age to get the hell out of there.

Eliot marched back to the tool aisle, picked up the most expensive hoe they carried and brought it up front.

'Here you go, sir. The best we carry - and it's on sale, half price. I guarantee it'll last you a long time.' Eliot smiled at the farmer, ignoring the thunderous expression on his father's face.

Not wanting to make a scene in front of his already uncomfortable customer, he rang up Eliot's price, gritting his teeth in anger.

'Sure appreciate it, young man.' The old farmer left with $5 still in his pocket.

'Come again, sir,' said Eliot with a big grin. He looked at his father. He loved one-upping the old bastard. And less profit meant less booze.

His father slowly walked over to the door and locked it. He turned the Closed-for-Lunch sign over and lowered the shades.

Eliot knew what was coming. He almost welcomed it.

~~~~~

Late that night, as Eliot lay smarting in his bed, the old man sat at the kitchen table, polishing off the last of the Jack Daniels. Smoking and drinking alone, he worked himself into a full blown paroxysm of temper. Pots and pans began banging against the walls and something that was glass shattered. The old man's unintelligible ravings grew louder and louder, accompanied by the sound of chairs being hurled and the table being tipped. Suddenly Eliot's bedroom door was kicked open. Eliot was ready for him, standing just inside the door, a baseball bat held over one shoulder.

The old man looked blearily at Eliot, muttered to himself, turned and walked away.

Eliot lowered the bat, knowing it was all over for the night. Still, as a precaution, he placed the bat within easy reach. Living with an violent alcoholic had taught Eliot one thing: stay alert, even while asleep.

~~~~~

The next morning, Eliot was up early to clean up the mess in the kitchen. He swept up shattered glass, picked up pots and pans thrown as far as the living room, and set the table upright. After that, Saturday meant another full day at the store. He'd come to loathe the hours he'd been forced to spend there. As young as he was, he could have operated the business alone; it was a living after all. Yet to Eliot, he might as well have been chained to a treadmill. 

He prepared, poured and expertly flipped pancakes, slathered them with butter and syrup and set them on the table. He hoped to eat and be gone by the time his father woke up. Eliot usually opened the store Saturdays so his father could sleep off his regular Friday hangover.

No such luck this morning.

The old man appeared at the kitchen door. He eyed the dark bruise on his son's jaw.

'I better not catch you pulling no stunt as you pulled yesterday ever again, Eliot Spencer. If you hadn't made me so mad, I wouldn't have done that. You know how I get.'

Eliot sighed, attacking his pancakes. 'Yeah Dad, I know how you get. It's always _somebody else's_ fault. Never _yours._ Somebody pisses you off or doesn't do what you want them to do and you go off on 'em. That and the way you keep that store; it's disorganized; it's dirty; it's a damned hole in the wall, Dad. Nobody can do anything right but _you._ Nobody in this town wants to work for you anymore so I get stuck with it all.'

Eliot shoved the last bite into his mouth, tossed the plate in the sink and was out the door before the old man could say anything. He'd left extra pancakes on the table, not as a peace offering and not that he cared if the old man ate or not. Eliot sincerely hoped the old bastard would choke on them.

~~~~~

A little over two weeks later, Eliot walked into the school office and asked for his diploma. _Didn't he plan to attend the ceremony that night_ , the secretary wanted to know. _No, ma'am, he'd skip it; it didn't mean that much to him anyway._ What mattered to Eliot was what he had planned for the following day, and if Dad didn't make it in to open at nine o'clock, the store was just gonna stay closed. _Fuck it._

Thursday morning dawned; Eliot skipped breakfast and left early. An hour later the bus dropped him off in front of the local army recruiting office. He'd already passed the ASVAB with flying colors. After basic training he'd take the oath of enlistment. The US Army was the only road out of this small town and that dark hole-in-the-wall of a store and he was taking it.

~~~~~

Eliot kept his plans to himself for the last few days he was home. The night before he was to leave for Fort Hood, he came into the living room. His father was entrenched in his easy chair, guzzling his favorite Bridgeport Blue Heron, watching baseball. His team, the Sooners, were losing to Texas Tech and the old man was in a foul temper. _Not the best time to break the news,_ Eliot thought, _but it has to be done._ The old man was his father, after all. He couldn't just take off, saying nothing.

He sat on the sofa and cleared his throat. 'Listen, Dad, there's something I gotta tell ya.' He rubbed his chin. 'I'm not gonna be here after tomorrow.'

The old man never took his eyes off the screen. 'You damned sure are; I need you to stock that back room and clean it up. It's a mess.'

'Can't, Dad. Sorry... I have other obligations.'

'What _other obligations?'_ the old man asked, sarcastically.

'I joined the army, Dad.'

'You did _what...'_

'You heard me.' Eliot felt himself tensing up, ready for the confrontation he knew would follow. 'I leave for Fort Hood tomorrow. Just wanted to let you know so you could get somebody else to replace me. That kid down the street might be able to help out for a few days.' _Kid, hell,_ thought Eliot. _The guy's varsity football; a head taller than me and a good fifty pounds heavier._ He had no qualms about recommending somebody who could hold his own against the old man. If the kid didn't want the job, screw it. It wasn't his problem anymore.

The old man clicked off the TV and kicked the chair to its upright position. He got to his feet, not a little unsteadily, and stood toe-to-toe with his son.

'You say you did _what.'_ The stale beer breath coming out of his father's mouth both infuriated and sickened Eliot.

'I joined the army, Dad. I'm... _not_...following your plan for my life. I don't _want_ the damned store. Not now, not ever. I gotta get out of here, out of this town. I want to do something _meaningful,_ not just be a dumb hardware salesman all my life!'

The old man, angered, suddenly thrust his fist at him. Eliot deftly dodged it, which only served to make matters worse. Everything he did triggered the old man. He didn't know if it was him or the booze. He only knew one thing: he was tired of it. There had to be something better in this life; he was eighteen years old and he intended to find it.

'You little son of a bitch. I've supported you all these years after your mother left - and this is how you repay me?!' 

'I don't owe you, Dad...not a fucking thing...and Mom left _because of you_ and you know it.'

The old man bellowed, lunging for him. Eliot, who'd lettered in wrestling in high school, stepped to the side, avoiding his father's forward momentum, and hooked the left arm with his right. Turning, he swiftly applied a half-nelson. Enraged, the old man fought back, kicking at Eliot. Eliot smoothly captured the other arm and locked his father into a full-nelson. He leaned back, creating pressure on the man's spine. The old man grunted.

'Calm down, Dad. I'm not gonna let you go until you _calm down_. I'm _done_ doing this. Do you hear me? I'm _done.'_

Eliot released his father, shoving him away. He shook his head in disgust and started for his room. He'd get his duffel and leave tonight; there were plenty of buddies he could bunk with until the bus came the next morning. As he walked past, his father came at him from behind, hitting him low in the back with his shoulder. Eliot went down, splitting his forehead against the coffee table. He was back up in an instant, fists clenched, face purple with rage.

'You want to throw hands, Dad? _Huh?_ You wanna throw hands with your own son? _I guarantee you'll get the worst of it!'_

The old man growled low in his throat. 'I want you _out of here,_ Eliot. You're no son of mine - _not anymore._ It's _done._ I don't want to see your face _ever again._ Now you _GET THE HELL OUT!'_

They stood panting, glaring at each other for a long moment, the old bull and the young one. It was a standoff. Eliot daubed a trickle of blood running down his nose with the elbow of his shirtsleeve. 

' _I_ can live with that.' Eliot grabbed his duffel. It contained all he needed. Anything else could just stay where it was. He reached the front door. His father's eyes followed him balefully as he opened it.

Eliot glanced back at his father.

' _Bye,_ Dad.'

~~~~~

**_TWENTY YEARS LATER_ **

The con had gone well. The team had successfully brought down the one ValueMore store that Eliot wanted closed, to protect the Mom-and-Pop stores that made up most of the small town. Somehow, it had all reminded him of home, of the good times, long before things had gone sour.

Something Hardison had said reminded him of something else. He made a date with the pretty proprietor of the small grocery store, telling her he'd take her out to dinner when he got back; he had to go out of town for a few days.

~~~~~

It was getting on to dusk. Eliot drove the F150 Club Cab up the long drive and pulled up outside the closed two-car garage. He got out, came around to the passenger side and lifted a six pack of Bridgeport Blue Heron out of the front seat.

A peace offering, as it were.

The chain link gate had no lock; he opened it, taking in and letting out a lungful of air to settle his nerves. Twenty years was a long time. Maybe things would be different now.

He liked that almost everything was the same; the chime, the sidewalk behind the porch supports, the solid brick wall, the big picture window up ahead. He smiled, remembering the chimes. His mother had hung them. A second set made of metal dolphins hung further up.

The porch light was on. Eliot hesitated; he could hear the TV going inside the house; undoubtedly some game. The old man never watched anything but sports and the news. At least he was home.

He knocked three times on the metal screen door. There was no answer. He knocked again, three times.

'Dad?' he said.

There was no answer.

Not sure of what to do, Eliot set the beer down by the door.

Still hoping his father would answer his knock, he stepped away and turned his back to the house, waiting. But the door remained closed. It was done. He knew it now. That door was closed to him forever.

Eliot Spencer: soldier, veteran, former hitman and now the team's defender, fought back the tears that insisted on forming. His throat clenched with the effort. He had to face it. The Hacker, the Grifter, the Thief and the Mastermind were the only family he had left.

_They're all I need, anyway,_ he thought to himself as he went back to his truck. _That and a date to keep with a pretty redhead._

He smiled to himself as he drove away.

THE END


End file.
